


A Blank, My Lord

by AndAllForAPrettyFace



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4457774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndAllForAPrettyFace/pseuds/AndAllForAPrettyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From DAKink prompt:</p>
<p>When Cullen is first at Kirkwall, he's still the angry, hate-filled Templar from Kinloch. He's glad to see that Meredith runs a tight ship and the mages get no leeway. He's less comfortable with Ser Alrick's obvious abuses, but . . . right now mages are barely people to him, and the Tranquil less than that.</p>
<p>Dear Author, give me angry but conflicted Cullen taking advantage of a Tranquil. Maybe she looks kind of like Amell, or maybe she's just the most convenient. He starts out knowing he shouldn't, but then he starts to justify it - he protects her, so he deserves it; they're in a "relationship," so it's ok. Maybe he really does start to fall for her in a twisted way, and treats her worse when she can't respond the way he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Blank, My Lord

Solona Amell. He can still picture the girl, with her raven hair and big eyes and lying innocence.

Cullen swallows his anger. He’s in Kirkwall, now. He’s away from her, the one, the demoness, the Warden.

And yet sometimes, he still thinks he sees her, out of the corner of his eye, in the corner of his eye, leaning easy on the wall, as all the others hurry with downward cast eyes here and there, fearful lest the Knight Commander and her steely gaze fall upon them. It’s an illusion, an idle fancy. He forces his mind to his duties, burns away the blur of distraction until there’s a clean slate again.

 

***

 

Solona Amell. He swears he sees her, not in his mind but there, in the corridor, walking toward him.

The sunburst seared on her temple is secondary to the realization that her eyes are empty and dull, devoid of Solona’s smiling gaze and witty spark.

Cullen looks away, half hard and sweating like a stallion.

 

***

 

Solona Amell’s bloody _cousin_ , here in the city.

She looks like her. The last name is Hawke, but it’s the same raven hair, the same big eyes, the same lying innocence.

She _smiled_  at him in the courtyard today, a naughty, tiny little shimmer of a blink-and-you-miss-it smile. She’s never seen him before, doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know the sickening twinge of want that her eyes breed in him. He’s breathless as a green recruit just at the memory of it.

He can’t have this. This can't be happening. He’s getting better here. He can’t afford to relapse here, lose control like he did during the crisis at Kinloch.

He pretends that there isn’t a hunger stirring in his gut, one that has nothing to do with food.

 

***

 

Solona Amell. He wakes from a dream of her, so real that—

No, not her—the demoness that took her form—the cylinder cage of repugnant light and whining noise—the foul creature that—

No, not the demoness, even—the fantasy that the demoness wove—the ephemeral illusion of Solona Amell that she lovingly crafted to break his mind, Solona Amell shyly confessing her love, shyly undressing, falling into his arms as he—

Cullen stumbles into the hall, feet slapping the floor as he stalks away from his bed, begging for relief in the cold night air.

Solona Amell. He sees her there, framed in the door to the supply closet, tallying herb stores in the inconstant lamplight. He sees her there, clever fingers carefully counting out quantities, feeling out weights.

He sees her there, with blank, empty eyes and a sunburst seal on her forehead.

Cullen hesitates before he steps through and closes the closet door behind him.

 

***

 

Solona Amell. Cullen chokes out her name as he enters her. 

He has her bent over a table that’s too small, really, to serve in such a manner. He can’t look in her eyes when he does this. He can’t look at the sunburst on her temple.

The skirts of her robe are bunched up around her waist. He’s fumbling with them as he enters her, stretching her wide. She’s painfully tight, almost past the point of comfort. He doesn’t know her name.

Cullen clenches his eyes shut, fumbling with her breasts, Maybe her body will know enough to respond to his touch, even if her mind and heart will not.

And then he stops caring. He stops wanting the passage to be easy. She’s wicked. She’s warm and soft under his hard, strong, clumsy fingers. Cullen gasps and starts to pick up speed, fingers bruisingly hard on her torso, taking dreadful pleasure each time his lust makes him slip and hurt her, just a little. The table jumps with each forceful jolt, just a little.

“Should I hold my robes there?” the girl asks him in a dead voice.

He doesn’t get a chance to answer. He spills in her, crushing her down onto the table, moaning into her shoulder and dying inside of shame and rage.

 

***

 

Solona Amell. It’s not her, and he knows it’s not her, but he can’t make himself care or stop.

It’s three weeks—and three more illicit, ill-advised midnight trysts in the storage closet—before he hears her name, three weeks before she’s more than a repository for his seed and his anger.

“Kara,” one of the night shift enchanters exclaims in undisguised surprise, “why haven’t you finished with your inventory yet?”

Cullen is halfway down the hall and freezes.

All he can think about is the smell of sex on her, the smell of sweat and desire. The smell of him. With the way he took his time with her tonight, he wonders if he left bruises or marks that would show. He wonders if her robes are properly straight, from after he finished with her. He wonders if his issue is spilling down her thighs. He wonders if she’s limping from the vigor of his lust. He wonders of the Tranquil deign to limp.

“I am sorry,” the Tranquil girl says, her voice as dead as her eyes. “I was delayed. The Knight-Captain required assistance.”

The enchanter seems skeptical but accepts this. She greets Cullen with a properly fearful, respectful nod.

 

***

 

Solona Amell. He wants to _stop_.

He wants to stop thinking of her by that name. He wants to stop using her as a proxy. He wants to stop this sin, Maker have mercy on his foul and corrupt soul.

He doesn’t.

He instructs her to open her mouth and take him in. He instructs her to suck. To lick. To swallow.

He thrusts in with a needy murmur. Her mouth is hot and wet like her sex will never be.

He tries to make it last.

She doesn’t gag, doesn’t utter a syllable of complaint.

He finds that he wishes she would. He wants to know that she’s suffering, being punished. He wants to know that he’s going to fast, hitting the back of her throat. He wants to know that she’s violated completely.

Cullen tries to think of her name as he comes, eyes clenched shut, but he can’t.

 

***

 

Solona Amell. She would be amused at the mounting tension in the city.

Cullen isn’t amused. Incidents between Templars and mages grow more severe every day; violence is commonplace, and a room full of shouted abuse toward either party is considered calm.

He has her on hands and knees, her hands and knees no doubt skinned from the pressure. He's slapping her ass until it’s red and raw.

She’s full of him, hard and frustrated and furious as he drives in, again and again, spitting foul words that he can’t bring himself to remember.

“Why are you saying my name?”

Her voice is eerie and calm in the heat of his passion.

Cullen stutters to a stop. Had he spoken? Spoken her name? He can’t even remember.

“You have always spoken another’s name during our couplings. Why has this changed?”

His throat is dry. He moves in her slowly. He whimpers.

And this time, he does hear himself, barely above a whisper. “Kara…”

A sliver of movement. Her head tilts to look back at him. Her dead eyes are on him, and there’s nowhere to hide from them.

“Kara—” he chokes out, misery and arousal feeding each other in his heart. “Kara, I… I’m…”

He feels himself speeding up again. He feels himself beating her body, bruising her where it won’t show. He feels himself clawing at her sex, her waist, her breasts. He feels his teeth meeting her shoulder as he mutes the ugly, primal howl that his body wants to make as he comes hard inside her, white-hot and maddening.

Kara straightens her robe after he withdraws, and she stands.

“Will that be all? I must return to my duties.”

 

***

 

Kara. He doesn’t know her last name. He’ll never know her last name.

The dead on both sides are beyond counting. Even in death, Orsino and Meredith make corpses bloom in the courtyard.

Cullen tries not to let himself think of one Tranquil girl amidst the hundreds of dead. He has many things that occupy his time and attention.


End file.
